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EX    LIBRIS 


SAX    C.. VUI.OS 


ROBERT  ERNEST  COWAN 


ROSE -ASHES 

AND 
OTHER  POEMS 


CARRIE  STEVENS  WALTER 

(Memorial  Edition) 


A.  C.  EATON  &  CO. 


Copyright,  7907,   by 
MARY  WALTER 


"  *   »    •    • 

.V, :  :.•?•>.  I 

»  •» » ^  « » 


?s 


Contents. 


Portrait        ........        Frontispiece 

ROSE-ASHES 

S=        IN  THE  SUNSHINE  :-  Page 

•Bt 

California         ........  13 

Indecision         ........  15 

Mendocino        .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .  17 

Maternity         .....        ...  19 

Through  Lake  County       ......  21 

Scattering  the  Mists           ......  24 

Santa  Clara  Valley  (May,  1889)        ....  26 

A  Thought  of  Farewell    .        .         .        .         .        .  29 

On  Monte  Piedra      .......  31 

At  Monterey    ........  33 

The  Fate  of  Genius            ......  34 

AtLakeport     ........  36 

To  Adolph  Sutro      .......  38 

Sunset  at  Santa  Barbara    .  39 


vi  Contents 

IN  THE  SHADOW :- 

Page 

Un  Suefio  de  la  Noche     ......  43 

As  I  Rock  My  Baby 47 

Unrest 49 

At  Last 52 

In  the  Desert 54 

Night  at  New  Almaden 56 

A  Night  Ride 58 

Why? 60 

On  the  Border-Land  of  Tears 62 

At  the  Dawning 63 

Fragments  (from  An  Idyl  of  Santa  Barbara)         *         .  65 


TEMPEST-TOSSED  :— 

A  Dedication 68 

Spanish  Song            .......  69 

The  Ciy  of  the  Spirit         .         .         ,         .         .         .  71 

A  Woman's  Response       ......  73 

After  All 75 

Nepenthe 78 

Ojald! 80 

And  Yet 81 

In  Bondage 82 

Suspense 84 

Pursued 85 

Nirvana  86 


vii 


Page 

At  Santa  Cruz 91 

Storm-Born 93 

Coming  Home          .......         95 

Willing  to  Go  Forward 99 

The  Legend  of  Amapola 102 

Alum  Rock  Canyon  .         .         .         .         .         .104 

In  Memory  of  Mrs.  E.  O.  Smith        .         .         .         .106 

To  Ina  Coolbrith 109 

At  the  Cross-road 110 

Santa  Cruz,  December  23,  1890.  .         .         .       112 

Mt.  Hamilton 113 

Reincarnation 116 

Monte  Piedra 120 

Conflict 122 

May  2,  1903 .        .       124 

Some  Day 126 

Love 128 

Pip  and  Ingle |29 

What  Is  It  to  Be  Akin 130 

Fallibility .         .         .133 

Fragment          .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .135 

Memorial  Tributes  to  Carrie  Stevens 

Walter    .  139 


ROSE -ASHES 


Whirled  from    the  altar  of  Life,— from  its  innermost  secret 

recesses,— 
Warm  with  the  memory  of  fires  that  have  burned  themselves 

low  at  its  shrine', 
Fragrant  with   incense  of  days  that  were  p-ure  as  an  angel's 

caresses;— 
Gathered  in  verse-urns  at  latt,   are  thest  scattered  rose-ashes 

of  mine. 


To  the  memory  of  my  father, 

ioaialf  £timtt 

from  whom,  with  my  life-breath,  I  drew  the  instincts 
of  song;  to  whom  I  owe  what  possibilities  of  its  expres 
sion  may  be  mine;  who  was  to  me  the  embodiment  of  all 
that  is  true  and  chivalrous  in  manhood,  and  who  is  to 
me  as  one  who  has  but  gone  before  to  prepare  a  place  for 
me,  I  dedicate  this  first  published  collection  of  my  verses. 

CARRIE  STE yENS  WA L TER . 
San  Jos t,  Cai.,  August,  iSyo. 


In  the  Sunshine 


California 

The  old  Pacific  harshly  calls  to  Mendocino's 

shore, 
But  sighs  at  Santa  Barbara's  feet  his  love-song 

o'er  and  o'er ; 
The  giant  redwoods  greeting  send  to  orange, 

fig  and  lime, 
And  Siskiyou    holds   out   a   cup    for   wine   oi 

Anaheim. 

Proud  Shasta's  snow-crowned  head  looks  out 
to  St.  Helena's  base, 

Where  Napa's  vine-wrought  beauty  smiles 
in  fair  Sonoma's  face ; 

Mount  Hamilton  reads  reverently  the  mys 
teries  of  the  skies, 

Where  Santa  Clara's  valley-sweep  in  fruited 
richness  lies. 


14  Rose- Ashes 

Armed  Alcatraz  stands  sentinel  beside  the 
Golden  Gate, 

Beyond  whose  portals  Farallones,  like  threat 
ening  shadows,  wait; 

The  commerce  of  the  world  steals  by,  unchal 
lenged,  day  by  day, 

But  Tamalpais  counts  every  ship  in  San  Fran 
cisco  Bay. 

Across  the  San  Joaquin's  broad  reach  of  vines 

and  waving  wheat, 
The  old  Sierras  pour  their  gold  to  San  Diego's 

feet ; 
And   northern   pine   and   southern   palm   woo 

sea-winds  from  the  west, 
While  over  all  a  spirit  broods  of  romance  and 

unrest. 

The  rose  entwines  the  orange-tree,  the  sea- 
winds  rock  the  pines, 

And  wheat-sheaves  lift  their  golden  heads 
amid  the  grapes'  green  vines ; 

The  latest  glow  of  sunset  still  enfolds  it  ever 
more, 

While  Strength  and  Beauty  stand  hand- 
clasped,  upon  this  Western  shore. 


Indecision  15 


Indecision 

"My  will  is  bondsman  to  the  dark, 
I  sit  within  a  helmless  bark." 

—TENNYSON. 

I  think,  to  every  human  soul, 

Who  truly  feels  life's  fullest  need, 
There  comes  a  time,  along  the  years, 

When  Heaven's  designs  are  hard  to  read; 
A  veil  seems  drawn  before  the  day, 

A  light  gone  out  where  late  one  shone, 
The  footsteps  falter  by  the  way — 

With    voiceless    speech    the    heart    makes 

moan: 

"My  will  is  bondsman  to  the  dark, 
I  sit  within  a  helmless  bark!" 

Through  years,  perhaps,  with  footstep  firm, 
We  fearless  walk  the  varied  way ; 

Life's  burdens  seem  not  hard  to  bear 
While  glad  around  us  shines  the  day; 


16  Rose- Ashes 

But  suddenly  our  joyous  song 

Is  strangely  still,  we  know  not  why, 
A  weakness,  where  but  late  was  strength, 
Creeps  'round  the  heart,  we  faintly  cry : 
"My  will  is  bondsman  to  the  dark, 
I  sit  within  a  helrnless  bark!" 

Yet,  soon  or  late,  there  comes,  I  think, 

To  all  who  feel  life's  highest  aim, 
Reaction  from  this  chill  despair, 

Our  ghosts  return  to  whence  they  came ; 
We  rise,  unconquered,  from  the  gloom, 

Our  brows  seem  fanned  by  heavenly  wings ; 
Hand-clasped    with    Hope    we    breast    life's 

waves, 

The  while  the  heart  triumphant  sings : 
"My  will  is  master  of  the  dark, 
And  angel  hands  will  guide  my  bark !" 


Mendocino  1 7 


Mendocino 

Like  a  host  of  giant  warriors, 
Mendocino's  mountains  stand, — 

Warrior-giants  grim  and  solemn, 
Face  to  face  and  hand  to  hand. 

Mail  of  madrone,  spears  of  redwood, 
Cloud  and  sunshine  helmeted, 

Breastplate  of  the  fir  and  oak-tree, 
Manzanita-garmented. 

Sunlight,  dim  with  faint  blue  shadows, 
Wraps  them  with  a  soft  caress, 

Leaving  not  on  spear  or  breastplate 
One  harsh  curve  of  ruggedness. 

Resinous  odors,  breath  of  hop-fields, 
Fragrance  of  the  sweet  wild  rose, 

Somnorific,  steal  upon  them, 
Lull  them  to  a  soft  repose. 


18  Rose- Ashes 

Mendocino's  grand,  gray  mountains, 
Warrior-giants  grim  and  hoar, 

Hushed  into  eternal  silence 
By  some  stern  edict  of  yore. 


Maternity  19 


Maternity 

(To  Roy.) 

I  hold  two  dainty  little  feet 

Clasped  in  my  warm  and  loving  hand, 
So  soft  and  pink,  they  sure  must  be 

Two  rose-leaves  blown  from  fairy-land. 

I  hold  a  tiny,  helpless  form, 

Clasped  closely  to  my  happy  heart, 

My  baby !  mine  by  right  divine, 
The  right  of  pain — a  mother's  part. 

O  beauteous  life,  so  fair  and  new, 
That  yesterday  was  blent  with  mine ! 

O  wondrous  soul,  so  lately  sprung 
A  sparklet  from  the  Source  Divine! 

God's  precious  gifts,  you  come  to  me 
Embodied  in  this  helpless  form ; 

My  mother-heart  accepts  the  trust 

As  flowers,  the  sunshine  soft  and  warm. 


20  Rose-Ashes 

My  brow  seems  decked  by  coronet, 

The  fairest  earth  has  ever  seen, 
The  diadem  of  Motherhood, 

And  God's  own  hand  has  crowned  me  queen 

What  realms  are  opened  to  my  sight ! 

I  tread  the  regions  of  the  blest ; 
And  all  because  this  little  form 

Lies  fair  and  helpless  on  my  breast ; 

A  tiny  bud,  whose  flower  complete 
May  bloom  to  bless  my  waning  years. 

Ah,  Motherhood,  you  hold  a  bliss 
That  best  may  be  expressed  in  tears. 

July,  1876 


Through  Lakt  County  21 


Through  Lake  County 

A  lake,  which  seems  a  silver  mirror,  swung 
Up  near  the  clear  blue  sky, 

Around  whose  loveliness  the  guardian  hills 
In  circling  beauty  lie. 

Mountains,  that  hide  within  their  silent  breasts 

Ashes  of  fires  long  spent, 

Whose  torches  lighted,  through  the  night  of 
Time, 

Chaos'  black  firmament. 

Cedars  and  pines,  which  strike  their  piercing 

roots 

In  cold  volcanoes'  hearts, 
That  throbbed  their  lives  out  in  some  dead 

world  grief, 
As  human  pain  departs. 


22  Rose-Ashes 

Valleys,    whose    curves    are    like    the    carved 
designs 

The  hand  of  sculptor  makes, 
Inheritors  of  all  the  riches  left 

By  long  departed  lakes. 

Unnumbered  springs  and  rills,  which  from  the 

earth 

In  sunshine  leap  and  play, 
And    take,    down    mountain-side    and    valley- 
sweep, 
Their  graceful,  sinuous  way. 

This  lake,  that  lonely  watched  through  untold 
years 

Orion  his  pathway  trace, 
Now  takes  in  Beauty's  Western  Wonderland, 

By  right,  an  honored  place. 

Above  the  tombs  of  countless  ages  dead, 
— Nature's  mute  battle-fields, — 

Beauty  and  Strength  have  wrought  their  mys 
teries, 
Order  his  sceptre  wields. 


23 


The  burned-out  passion  of  a  dead  world's  pain, 
— This  granite  dust  of  time, — 

Is  re-incarnate  in  the  lovely  form 
Of  flower  and  tree  and  vine. 

The  Spirit  of  the  Past,  that  wrought  its  work 

And  seemed  to  pass  away, 

Through   loam   and   vine   and   grape   is   born 
again, 

The  rich  wine  of  to-day. 

The  old-world  trees,  whose  lavishness  of  leaf 
Formed  this  rich  valley-soil, 

Yielded  their  lives  in  travail  to  the  fruits 
That  now  reward  our  toil. 

Thus  ceaselessly  the  mystic  wheel  of  Life 

Makes  its  eternal  round  ; 
No  link  is  lost,  no  hurry  mars  its  sweep, — 

One  perfect  whole  is  found. 


24  Rose- Ashes 


Scattering  the  Mists 

A  reminiscence  of  the  Grand  Encampment  of  the  G.  A.  K., 
held  in  San  Francisco,  August.  1886. 

Stealing  over  crinkled  sand-dunes,  creeps  the 

sea-fog  on  the  town, 
Silent  as  a  spirit  legion,  through  the  shadows 

sweeping  down. 

Through  the  streets  aflame  with  banners,  all 

a-throb  with  human  life, 
Cowers   the    sea-fog    sore    affrighted — all  the 

place  with  tumult  rife. 

Measured  tread  of  marching  thousands,  blaze 

of  flambeau,  blare  of  guns, 
Lingering    shouts    of,    "Sherman !"    "Logan !" 

"Honor  to  our  nation's  sons !" 

All  the  air  a-thrill  with  music,  roses  strewn 

along  the  ways, 
This  the  tribute  California,  to  each  honored 

hero,  pays. 


Scattering  the  Mists  25 

Backward     over     crinkled     sand-dunes,     as 

affrighted  spectres  flee, 
Routed,  beaten,  creeps  the  sea-fog,  sinks  into 

the  sheltering  sea. 


26  Rose-Ashes 


Santa  Clara  Valley 

May,  1889. 

Like  some  fair  island,  ocean-girt  and  calm, 
Whose  soft  enchantment  of  dim  distances, 
Beneath  the  ardent  glory  of  the  Sun, 
Bewilders  with  its  ever-changing  grace — 
This  wondrous  valley  lies. 

Its  clasping  waves, 

The  tawny  billows  of  the  hills  that  rise 
Brown-streaked  with  curving  rows  of  ripening 

hay; 

These,  crossed  and  cut  by  many  a  green  ravine 
—Thick-wooded,  dank, — that  with  long  fingers 

strives 

To  envious  stop — yet,  witless,  only  aids 
The  upward  reaching  of  the  hills  to  meet 
The   soft,    cool   bosom   of  the   clouds,   which 

stoop 
To  their  caressing,  as  fond  mothers  do. 


Santa  Clara  Valley  27 

Above  the  eastern  range,  the  morning  sun 
Flaunts  the  first  banners  of  the  dawn ;  and  here 
Mount  Hamilton  clasps  hands    with    Mission 

Ridge; 
Then,   like   a   king,    he   marshals   toward   the 

south 
A  phalanx  of  the  lesser  hills. 

These  go 

And  dim  and  dimmer  grow,  'till  far  beyond 
Where  Almaden  darts  sharply  out  to  bar 
Their  way,  they  stop  at  last,  a  hovering  band, 
And,  like  tired  children,  cuddle  down  to  rest 
In  the  warm  sands  of  sheltered  Montere}r. 

Along  the  western  boundary,  holding  back 
The  hoarse  Pacific,  that  unceasing  frets 
And  foams  against  their  sturdy  barrier, 
The  hills  of  Santa  Cruz  lift  stately  heads ; 
Their    sides    green-flecked    with    laurel    and 

madrone, 

Their  summits, — dark  against  the  sunset  sky, 
Close  serried  with  the  giant  redwood  trees, 
Which  stand  like  sentinels  upon  the  heights, 
— The     fortressed    heights    that    guard    this 

farthest  West. 


28  Rose-Ashes 

From  Monterey  to  San  Francisco  Bay, 
No  break  is  found  along  this  western  wall 
Through  which  reluctant  sunshine  could  steal 

back, 

Despite  the  formal  farewell  of  the  Day, 
For  just  one  little  stolen,  hurried  kiss, 
One  latest,  last  farewell — (as  lovers  do) — 
To  Santa  Clara  Valley,  looking  out 
With  shaded  eyes  that  fain  would  lure  it  back. 

These   are   the   sheltering    walls    that     clasp 

within 

Their  bounding  lines  a  world  \vithin  itself; 
An  Orient  of  fairest  fruits  and  flowers ; 
An  Occident  of  beauty  fresh  and  new, 
Where  polar  snow  and  tropic  sun  seem  blent 
In  flower  and  fruit  of  bending  orchard  trees. 

This — Santa  Clara  Valley,  lying  fair 
Within  the  clasping  boundary  of  her  hills! 


A  Thought  of  Farewell  29 


A  Thought  of  Farewell 

I  think,  my  friend,  the  Hindoo  version  wrong, 
Which  claims  Nirvana  is  forgetfulness, — 

That  all  experience  of  the  ages  gone 

Leaves  not  one  memory  to  curse  or  bless. 

I  love  to  call  it  by  another  name, 

Nirvana — "All-remembering" — "All-divine," 
And  think  that  in  a  grander,  larger  life, 

A  clearer,  broader  memory  will  be  mine. 

That  all  I've  been,  along  the  countless  years 
Since    first    from    Chaos'    fount    my    being 
sprang,— 

That  all  I've  felt  of  joy  or  wept  of  tears, 

Or  known  of  love  or  disappointment's  pang, 

May  stand  to  me  in  that  clear,  larger  life, 
For  some  grand  purpose  in  the  all-wise  plan, 

With  God's  good  reason  for  the  life  intense 
That  fierce  through  all  my  forms  of  being 
ran. 


30  Rose-Ashes 

Then,  in  that  time,  I  know  that  not  the  least 
Of  memory's  buds  that  into  flower  expand, 

Will  be  your  friendship  and  your  aid  to  me 
Through  all  the  years,  since  first  a  kindly 
hand, — 

A  helping  hand,  that  was  a  guide  and  shield, 
You   reached   to   me — a    searcher    for    the 

light  — 

An  humble  wayside  gleaner  in  the  field 
Wherein    you    labored    with    man's    glorious 
•might. 

Then  every    cheering    tone,— your    words    of 
praise, 

And  every  kindly  grasping  of  the  hand, 
Will  shine  as  stars  in  memory's  firmament. 

That  clasps  the  glory  of  Nirvana's  land. 


On  Monte  Piedra 


On  Monte  Piedra 

(A   Mountlet  in   Lake   County.) 

These  stoic  rocks,  profoundly  still, 
What  secrets  could  they  not  disclose ! 

Ebbing  of  seas,  and  rise  of  hill, 
Formation's  mighty  travail-throes. 

Tell  me,  O  rocks,  what  underlies 
Old  St.  Helena's  massive  base? 

What  fount  of  Nature's  mysteries 
Hides  back  of  Cobb's  majestic  face? 

What  master  spirit  wrought  the  plan 
Of  Loconomi's  graceful  curves? 

And  trod  it  first,  some  god-like  man, 
With  giant  form  and  iron  nerves, 

Who  grasped  with  powerful  hand  the  crude, 
Fierce  chaos  of  a  rounding  world, 

And  warring  atoms,  strong  and  rude, 
Into  harmonious  being  hurled? 


32  Rose-Ashes 

Tell  me  the  thought  that  wrought  the  smile 
Of  pine  and  cedar  on  these  hills ; 

What  merriment  knew  earth  the  while, 
That  brought  such  laugh  of  rippling  rills? 

What  thought  divine  incarnates  Man, 
Who  walks  his  little  round  to  death  ? 

Teach  me  the  wisdom  of  the  plan 

That  mixed  these  winds  with  his  hot  breath. 

And  ere  he  broke  the  calm  above 
The  slumbers  of  the  countless  years, 

WThat  knew  ye  of  the  pangs  of  love, 
Or  smiles  of  joy,  or  passion's  tears? 

Tell  me  what  prophecies  you  draw 
Of  future  from  the  past  you've  seen ; 

And  judge,  by  God's  unchanging  law, 
What  is  to  be  from  what  has  been. 


At  Monterey  33 


At  Monterey 

Along  the  beach  beyond  the  dunes, 
I  wandered  one  fair  summer  day, 

And  heard  the  waves'  low-whispered  runes 
Come  up  the  Bay  of  Monterey. 

The  long  gray  reach  of  sanded  shore, 

The  glinting  of  the  sunlit  bay, 
The  breakers  murmuring  evermore 

Their  low  sweet  tales  of  Monterey,  — 

All  these  became  a  part  of  me, 

And  mine  the  rapture  of  the  day — 

The  day  I  watched  the  summer  sea 
Creep  in  and  capture  Monterey. 

When  life's  last  gates  swing  out  for  me, 

And  stands  revealed    Heaven's    first    sweet 
day, 

I  wonder,  will  its  radiance  be 
Fairer  than  this,  at  Monterey? 


Rose-Ashes 


The  Fate  of  Genius 

To  Margaret  Mather. 

To  consecrate  your  life  to  one  high  aim ; 

To  merge  your  hopes,  desires,  ambitions,  loves, 

In  one  strong  purpose — loyalty  to  Art ; 

To  climb  to  heights  where  few  have  dared  to 

tread, 

Alone,  uncomprehended  by  the  crowd 
That  toil,  and  fret,  and  struggle  far  below ; 
Self-dedicated,  to  forego  the  fate 
Of  lowlier  women,  with  the  joys  and  hopes, 
The  loves  and  cares    that    round    their  little 

worlds : 

This  is  the  fate  of    Genius — this  is  yours, 
O,  peerless  Woman,  in  whose  regal  soul 
All  grand  emotions  find  their  exponent. 
For  you  are  of  the  rare  and  royal  few, 
Whose    springs    of    life,    by    Heaven's  divine 

decree, 


The  Fate  of  Genius  35 

Have  source  in  some  far,  snow-born  fountain- 
head, 

And  run  forever  in  deep  gorges,  cut 
Outside  the  placid  channel  wherein  flows 
The  stream  of  commoner  Humanity. 


36  Rose- Ashes 


The  circling  hills  that  guard  Clear  Lake,  like 

lazy  giants  lie 
Beneath  the  ardent  sunshine,  with  their  faces 

to  the  sky ; 
Konockti  sees  across  her  waves  Night's  elfin 

shadows  play, 
And  loves  to  catch  and  fling  to  her  the  first  red 

lights  of  Day. 

Back  from  the  lake  the  pretty  town  goes  danc 
ing  to  the  hills, 

That  greet  her  with  a  gift  of  flowers  and  sere 
nade  of  rills ; 

The  wine  of  life  is  in  the  air  that  wafts  the 
fragrance  down 

From  resinous  pines  and  odorous  flowers  to 
lake  and  shore  and  town. 

The  fairest  land  beneath  the  sun,  within  whose 
border  lies 


At  Lakeport  37 

The  glory  of  an  emerald  earth  o'erhung  by 
sapphire  skies; 

And  where,  like  threads  of  finest  gold,  the  yel 
low  sun-rays  fall,  — 

Where  Beauty  makes  her  dwelling-place,  and 
Heaven  is  over  all. 


286723 


38  Rose-Ashes 


To  Adolph  Sutro 

Where  the  radiant  land  of  sunset  opens  wide 

its  western  door, 
Where  Pacific's  restless  breakers  reach  their 

arms  out  evermore, 
There  is  wrought  a  wondrous  poem  on  th« 

tablets  of  the  rocks, — 
Wrought  with  pen  of  blast  and  pick-axe,  as 

with  throes  of  earthquake  shocks. 


Truest  instincts  of  the  poet  matchless  lines  oi 

beauty  trace, 
Storied  places  yield  their  tribute  to  enhance 

the  mystic  grace ; 
Through  the  long-advancing  ages,  gleam  of 

days  or  gloom  of  nights, 
California's  sons  will  thank  you  for  your  poem, 

—"Sutro  Heights." 


Sunset  at  Santa  Barbara  39 


Sunset  at  Santa  Barbara 

The  mountains  stand, 

Clearly  defined,  against  the  blood-red  sky; 
The  waves,  retreating  from  the  rocky  strand, 
Into  the  mist  and  gloom  go  hand  in  hand 

To  sob  and  die. 

The  night  comes  on, — 

As  day  retires  with  crimson  banner  furled, — 
One  bright  star  sits  in  beauty  all  alone 
Upon  her  pensive  brow,  as  on  a  throne, 

Queen  of  the  world. 

In  such  a  light, 

So  filled  with  glory,  let  me  ever  lie ; 
With   mountains,    sunset,    and    the    hush    of 

night,— 
The  waves  retreating  till  they  seem  to  smite 

The  blood-red  sky. 


In  the  Shadow 


Un  Sueno  de  la  Noche  43 


Un  Sueno  de  la  Noche 

(From  "An  Idyl  of  Santa  Barbara. ') 

You  decked  my  breast  with  violets  last  night, 
~-Their  haunting  sweetness  thrills  my  pulses 

yet,-— 

You  clasped  my  eager  hands  with  warm  caress, 
And  kissed  the  sadness  from  my  eyelids  wet. 

My  soul  is  sad  at  memory  of  your  touch ; 

Your  flowers'  rich  fragrance  smites  my  heart 

with  pain; 
The  look  of  pitying  kindness  in  your  eyes 

Will  never  come  to  gladden  me  again. 

For  all  the  sweetness  of  that  haunting  scene, — 
Your  thrilling  touch, — your   violets'  purple 

gleam, — 
The  glance  of  kindness  from  your  speaking 

eyes, — 

Were  but  the  offspring  of  a  strange,  sweet 
dream. 


44  Rose-Ashes 

I  wake  to  know  your  your  hand  can  ne'er  clasp 

mine 
Thro'  all  the  years — this  side  of  Hope  and 

Heaven ; 

To  know  that  not  one  kindly  glance  of  yours 
Shall  ever  to  my  longing  eyes  be  given. 

I  wake  to  take  my  burden  up  again, — 

Forgot    for   one    sweet    hour    of    dreaming 
night,— 

My  weary  burden  of  the  heart  and  brain, 
And  do  my  duty  with  my  woman's  might. 

I  would  not  look  upon  your  face  again, 
— Your  strong,  proud  face  that  is  a  god's,  to 
me, — 

I  would  not  hear  the  music  of  your  voice, 
I  would  not  think  of  you,  nor  hear,  nor  see 

One  spoken,  written  word  that  could  recall 
Your  memory ;  for  only  thus  to  me 

Can  come  a  strength  to  do  my  daily  work. 
For  which  my  spirit  must  be  brave  and  free. 


Un  Siteno  de  la  Noche  45 

You  came  into  my  life  for  one  brief  hour, 
Strong,  noble,  grand  as  any  god  could  be, 

And  all  the  currents  of  my  being's  tide, 

And  life  itself,  henceforth  were  changed  for 
me. 


You  came — and  passed.  Now  nevermore  to  me 
Can  come  the  clasping  of  your  firm  true 
hand, — 

May  shine  the  tender  glory  of  your  eyes — 
No  more  to  me,  this  side  the  Heavenly  Land. 

I  pray  for  strength, — I  would  be  firm  and  brave 
To  put  your  very  memory  away ; 

I  pray  for  strength,  and  it  is  granted  me 
To  meet  the  burdens  of  the  toilful  day. 

But  in  the  dreaming  mystery  of  Night 

Such  visions  come,  sometimes,  of  bliss  and 
pain, 

That,  with  the  dawning  of  another  day, 

The  hard-won  battle  must  be  fought  again. 


46  Rose-Ashes 

And  yet — until  we  both  shall  pass  the  bridge 
That  spans  the  mystic  gulf  from  shore  to 
shore, 

There  must  remain  between  my  soul  and  yours 
The  bridgeless  sea  of  Silence — evermore. 


As  I  Rock  My  Baby  47 


As  I  Rock  My  Baby 

Oh,  little  golden  head  that  lies 

So  fair  upon  the  mother  breast ! 
Oh,  dewy  mouth,  as  roses  sweet, 

So  oft  to  mine  in  kisses  pressed ! 

Oh,  little  hands  that  press  my  cheek 

With  dear  caress  of  baby  touch ! 
Oh,  blue-gray  eyes  that  seek  my  own 

With  questioning  glance  that  asks  so  much ! 

Dear,  restless  feet  that  come  and  go 
In-doors  and  out  the  whole  day  long, 

To  music  of  the  lisping  voice 

Far  sweeter  to  my  ears  than  song! 

I  trembling  glance  adown  the  years, 
Strung  mist-like  on  the  thread  of  fate, 

That  bring  my  winsome  baby  girl, 
Her  womanhood's  most  fair  estate. 


48  Rose-Ashes 

And  dread  the  time  my  sheltering  arms 
Can  shield  her  precious  form  no  more, 

When  she  has  watched,  with  shaded  eyes, 
My  boat  glide  to  the  Farther  Shore. 

I  wonder — will  the  proud  young  head 
Bend  some  day  to  a  chastening  rod, 

The  while  -my  folded  hands,  perhaps, 
Lie  'neath  the  violet-tufted  sod  ? 

I  wonder — will  the  bright  young  eyes 
Grow  dim  and  heavy  with  the  weight 

Of  tears  they  are  too  proud  to  shed, 
For  life's  hopes  wrecked  and  desolate? 

Oh,  little  hands,  take  up  your  work, 
Whate'er  Hope  grants  or  Life  denies ; 

Look  bravely  in  tire  face  of  Fate, 

And  shrink    not,   droop  not,   bright   young 
eyes. 

And,  may-be,  from  the  Farther  Shore, 
A  mother's  love  can  reach  to  bless, — 

Can  guide  and  shield  the  wayworn  feet 
With  more  than  olden  tenderness. 

January,  1885. 


Unrest  49 


Unrest 

The  faint  sea-breezes  lift  the  silken  hangings 

With  soft  and  sad  unrest ; 
The  weary  song-bird  fain  would  still  the  music 

That  trembles  in  his  breast. 

I  sit  alone,  environed  by  the  shadows 

That  steal  into  the  room, 
And,  bolder  grown,  with  pity  for  my  sadness, 

Wrap  me  in  tender  gloom. 

The  pale  cream  roses  in  their  emerald  couches, 
The  sweet-breathed  heliotrope, 

The  star-eyed  jessamine,  whose  radiant  white 
ness 
Seems  -emblem  best,  of  hope ; 

The  bending  sprays  of  lily-of-the-valley, 
With  bells  like  drops  of  snow, 

The  purple  violets,  with  dewy  lustre 
So  like  to  eyes  I  know ; 


50  Rose-Ashes 

The  large  magnolia,  empress  of  the  blossoms, 
Whose  fragrance  rare  and  sweet, 

Is  as  the  essence  of  all  Southern  glory 
Born  of  magnetic  heat, — 


All  smite  me  with  their  perfume-laden  kisses, 
As  drops  of  fragrant  rain, 

That  stir  within  my  soul  a  restless  cadence 
Half  passion,  and  all  pain. 


Oh,  weary  ways,  that  lie  along  life's  journey, 
Lone  wastes  of  space  and  time, 

That  stretch  between  me  and  peace  that  calls 

me 
As  some  far  distant  chime ! 


I  strive  in  vain  to  win  a  blest  nepenthe, 

Or  soothing  oenomel ; 

Still    swell    along    the    years    life's    solemn 
changes, 

Sad  as  a  tolling  bell. 


Unrest  51 

Oh,  strong,  pure   voices    from    that    blessed 

future, 

From  which  doth  emanate 
Wisdom  and  peace, — teach  me  life's  hardest 

lesson 
— To  work,  and  hope,  and  wait. 


52  Rose-Ashes 


At  Last 

Along  the  toiling  ways  of  life, 

My  footsteps  come  and  go ; 
How  sad  to  me  the  dust  and  heat, 

Your  heart  may  never  know, 
— Dear  friend, — 

The  while  I  come  and  go. 

Yet  heaviest  task  would  seem  but  light, 
Nor  long  the  weariest  ways, 

If  I  could  know  I'd  win  at  last, 
The  guerdon  of  your  praise, 

— Beloved, — 
After  long  toiling  days. 

And  I  could  climb  the  rockiest  heights, 

Or  tread  the  burning  sand, 
If  I  could  meet,  when  all  was  done, 

The  clasping  of  your  hand, 

Your  true  and  loving  hand. 


At  Last  53 

In  darkest  hours,  my  faith  could  see 

The  sunshine  smiling  through, 
Could  I  but  know  I'd  come,  at  last, 

To  light  and  love  and  you, 
—  Dear  heart, — • 

When  weary  toils  are  through. 


54  Rose- Ashes 


In  the  Desert 

This  desert-drouth  in  which  my  soul 
Plods  on  beneath  a  burning  sky, 

Has  withered  all  my  fairest  flowers, 
The  very  fount  of  song  is  dry. 

A  ceaseless  struggle  to  maintain 

With  slender  hands,  by  force  of  will, 

A  painful  hold  on  life's  rough  rocks, 
Keeps  all  my  song-birds  sadly  still. 

I  think  God  made  a  woman's  hands 
To  stroke  the  babe  upon  her  breast, — 

To  smooth  the  grief  from  pain-knit  brows, 
And  strew  the  lotus-flowers  of  rest. 

But  cruel  thorns  too  often  tear 
The  feet  of  women  who  must  tread 

Life's  rugged  thoroughfares,  to  win 
Their  own  or  helpless  children's  bread. 


In  the  Desert  55 

No  Boaz  rules  the  field  of  Toil 

To  drop  with  generous  hand  some  grains, 
For  heart-faint  Ruth,  who  gleans  across 

The  sharpness  of  its  stubble-plains. 

She  can  but  walk  with  purpose  firm 
And  heart  each  hour  upraised  to  God ; 

The  while  she  prays  her  sinking  feet 
May  find  the  path  her  Lord  has  trod. 


56  Rose-Ashes 


Night  at  New  Almaden 

Soft  the  trickling  waters  slip 

Through  the  shadows  of  the  night, 

Under  spectral  trees  that  dip 

Low  their  phantom  boughs,  gray-white. 

Up  the  shadowy  mountain  side 
Climb  dim  redwoods  to  the  skies, 

Gazing  out  on  Night's  star-tide 
In  a  reverent  surprise. 

Giant  ghosts  of  chimneys  rise 
Dim  from  summits  of  the  steep, 

'Neath  which  fiery  furnace  eyes 
Know  no  night  of  rest  or  sleep. 

Brawny  men  their  toil-watch  keep, 
Where  the  drill  and  pick-axe  chime, — 

In  Earth's  strongholds  dark  and  deep 
Break  the  treasure-vaults  of  Time. 


Night  at  New  Almaden  57 

While  the  great  heart  of  the  Mine 

Pulses  strong  beneath  our  feet, 
Overhead  the  roses  twine 

Through  the  length  of  silent  street. 

There — Toil's  arteries  throbbing  strong 

With  their  tide  of  living  men, — 
Here — a  plaintive  Spanish  song 

Thrills  the  night  at  Almaden. 


58  Rose- Ashes 


A  Night  Ride 

Across  the  marshes'  sombre  reach, 

Where  gathering  shadows  deepening  lie, 
The  glassy  pools  reflect  the  red 
Rich  glory  of  the  sky, 

Where  fairest  mysteries  lie. 

Above  the  low  coast-hills,  the  moon 

A  new-born  crescent  lowly  swings, 
Hand-clasped  with  Night's  first  star  that  tells 
Its  tale  of  heavenly  things, 

While  low  the  slim  moon  swings. 

A  ghost-like  mist  creeps  slowly  up — 

Creeps  silent,  slow,  from  distant  bay, 
O'er  gloom  of  marsh  and  gleam  of  pool 
It  spreads  its  mantle  grey, 

Sun-wrought  from  out  the  bay. 


A  Night  Ride  59 

Above  the  noise  of  rushing  train, 

I  hear  the  marsh-bird's  lonesome  call, 
And  turn  from  light  and  warmth  within 
To  watch  night's  shadows  fall, 

And  list  the  marsh-bird's  call. 

My  heart,  like  mirror  pool,  reflects 
A  heaven  of  love  I  leave  behind, 
A  heaven  of  light  and  love  I  pray 
The  shadows  may  not  find, 

Dear  light  I  leave  behind. 

The  clasping  of  my  children's  arms, 

Home's  circling  light  and  warmth  and  love, 
My  lonely  spirit  galls  for  these 
As  marsh-bird's  cry  might  prove 
A  cry  for  home  and  love. 


60  Rose-Ashes 


Why? 

Why  do  we  strive  to  work  a  glad  solution 
Of  all  life's  problems  here? 

Why   should   we   eager   question    "Whence?" 

and  "Wherefore?" 
Of  every  falling  tear? 

Why  grieve  that  effort  fails  of  hoped  fruition  ? 

That  love  unsought  is  given? 
That  chafing  spirits  fret  in  hateful  bondage  ? 

That  tenderest  ties  are  riven? 


That  what   seems    wrong    in    our    imperfect 

vision, 

Triumphs  in  place  of  right, 
As  heaven's  dear  sunshine  leaves  the  earth  in 

sorrow, 
Affrighted  by  the  night? 


Why?  61 

If  we  could  learn  God's  perfect  law  of  being 
That  rules  thro'  all  the  spheres, 

I   think  we   then   should   know   His   glorious 

reason 
For  toil  and  pain  and  tears. 

In  the  grand  anthem  wrought  by  life's  creation 
Some  notes  seem  dissonant, 

Because  our  human  ears  catch  but  imperfect 
Faint  fragments  of  the  chant. 

The  march  of  God  is  ever  forward — onward — 
Let  us  this  truth  discern, 

Upon  Time's  dial-plate  Fate's  mystic  fingers 
Can  never  backward  turn. 

Could  we  but  see,  as  with  angelic  vision, 

What  purpose  is  in  pain, 
I  think,  perhaps,  that  sorrow's  saddest  numbers 

Might  prove  life's  glad  refrain. 


62  Rose-Ashes 


On  the  Border-Land  of  Tears 

On  the  border-land  of  tears, 
Raised  by  hopes  or  crushed  by  fears, 
Joy  and  grief  alternate  swell, 
In  the  soul  no  peace  can  dwell. 

On  the  border-land  of  tears 
Stand  the  ghosts  of  vanished  years ; 
All  we  might  be — and  are  not — 
Greet  us  on  that  haunted  spot. 

Clouds,  like  ships,  from  shore  to  shore 
To   and   fro   pass   evermore, 
Sable  bordered, — scarce  appears 
Tint  of  peal  through  mist  of  tears. 

All  Life's  quivering  mile-posts  loom 
Sad  as  grave-stones  through  the  gloom ; 
Trembling  hopes  are  crushed  by  fears 
On  the  border-land  of  tears. 


At  the  Dawning  63 


At  the  Dawning 

Frail  little  barque  on  the  rude  ocean  cast, 

— Ocean  of  Life,  dark  and  wild, — 
Ah,  many's  the  storm  and  the  firce,  cold  blast, 
That  may  shipwreck  thy  hopes,  ere  the  voyage 

be  past, 
And  thou  be  at  rest,  little  child, 

— Dear  one, — 
Safe  from  the  storms  dark  and  wild. 

Poor  little  feet !  that  from  thorns  may  bleed, 

— Thorns  'mid  the  roses  cast! 
Be  patient  and  suffer,  for  few  will  heed 
When  the  footsteps  fail,  or  the  tired  feet  bleed 

'Till  the  ending  comes  at  last, 
— Poor  feet, — 

And  thorns  and  roses  are  past. 


64  Rose-Ashes 

Wondering  eyes!  to  be  dimmed  by  tears, 

— Tears  often  hid  by  a  smile — 
Glad  eyes,  you'll  grow  sad  in  the  coming  years, 
For    falsehood    and    treachery    weeping   your 

tears, 
'Neath  the  pitiful  -mask  of  a  smile 

— Sad  eyes, — 
Yes,  weeping  a  weary  while. 

Dear  little  heart !  that  must  ache  so  sore, 

— Ache  with  a  cruel  pain — 
When  bright  visions  fade,  and  hope  shines  no 

more, — 

Yes,  ache  till  you  reach  the  radiant  shore 
Far  over  Life's  troubled  main, 

— Dear  heart, — 
Where  endeth  all  woe  and  pain. 


Fragments  65 


Fragments 

(From  "An  Idyl  of  Santa  Barbara.") 
NIGHT-FALL  AT  SANTA  BARBARA 

A  precious  amber  vase  just  filled  from  Elysian 

fountains, 
Whose  sacred  libation  is  poured  to  the  year's 

expiring  ember,  — 
A  chalice  whose  wine  is  spilled  over  ocean  and 

islands  and  mountains, 
Is  the  close  of  this  perfect  day  of  our  California 

December. 

Like  ghosts  of  the  past  stand  the  towers  cross- 
tipped  of  the  church  of  the  Mission, 

While  closer  and  closer  the  shadows  creep 
round  them  like  stricken  things, — 

The  shadows  that  seem  like  the  souls  of  the 
years  that  have  bowed  at  its  altar, 

Or  land-birds  blown  out  over  ocean  that  droop 
their  desolate  wings. 


66  Rose-Ashes 

SANTA  BARBARA 

Where  the  roses'  rich  gifts  are  completest, 
Where  sea-winds  kiss  odorous  trees, 

Where  song's  liquid  numbers  are  sweetest 
Santa  Barbara  looks  out  o'er  the  seas. 

LOVE 

Among  the  silver  threads  of  Life 

So  closely  twine  Love's  golden  strands, 

That  if  we  loose  their  clinging  hold, 
The  fabric  crumbles  in  our  hands. 


Tempest-Tossed 


A  DEDICATION 

An  underground  fountain  ivhose  springing 
Bespangles  the  desert  with  flowers ; 

A  nest-hidden  bird  whose  loiu  singing 
Breaks  silence  of  desolate  hours; 

A  low  bank  of  violets,  leaf  hidden, 

Whose  odor  is  sensuous  bliss; 
A  bit  Id  wish  that  creeping  unbidden, 

Lifts  face  for  a  welcoming  kiss; 

T?  ue  source  of  Life's  deep  inspiration, 
Whose  beauty  and  fragrance  ate  mine, 

In  the  hush  of  a  sours  exaltation 
This  offering  I  place  on  your  shrine. 


Spanish  Song  69 


Spanish  Song 

(From   "An  Idyl  of  Santa  Barbara.") 

What   does   it  -mean, — this   tyrant   spell   that 

holds  me 

A  captive   in   its  chain, — 
That  thrills  my  wayward  heart  with  strong 

emotion — 
Love's  passion  and  its  pain? 

O,  restless  soul  that  beats  Life's  bar  unceasing, 

— A  tiger  held  in  thrall, — 
O,    passion's   surge   that   would   engulf   calm 

reason, 
And  give  to  Love  life's  all ! 

Can  I  not  curb  the  strong,  defiant  feeling 

That  struggles  in  my  soul, 
And    scorns    all    form     and     law     that     cold 
convention 

Would  frame  in  Love's  control? 


70  Rose- Ashes 

I  strive  in  vain,  for  all  that  life  could  grant  me, 
Or  hope's  bright  vision  greet, 

My    woman's    heart    would — haughty    as    an 

empress — 
Fling  proudly  at  your  feet, 

And  ask  no  thought  from  you  in  compensation, 

No  love-thrill  in  return; 

My  own,  unsought,   from   Life's   rich  depths 
must  seek  me, 

All  else  my  heart  would  spurn. 

You  are  to  me  the  noblest  realization 
Of  manhood  grand  and  true, 

The  one  man  in  God's  universe — I  care  not 
What  I  may  be  to  you. 

And  thus  to  live — swayed  by  a  godlike  feeling 

That  may  not  be  expressed, 
To  bravely  strive — yet  never  quite  subduing 

Love's  longing  and  unrest. 


The  Cry  of  the  Spirit  71 


The  Cry  of  the  Spirit 

The  words  that  are  spoken  but  shadow 
The  thoughts  that  are  never  expressed, 

And  back  of  life's  turmoil  there  lieth 
The  infinite  rapture  of  rest. 

From  over  the  mountains  enshadowed 
There  flusheth  the  glory  of  dawn ; 

Gethsemane's  gateway  but  claspeth 
The  way  that  a  Saviour  has  gone. 

Through  avenues  cypress-embordered, 
Love  walketh  with  radiant  crown ; 

From  cross-tipped  summits  of  anguish 
The  pitying  Christ  looketh  down. 

We  turn  from  the  hands  that  are  offered 
To  those  that  we  cannot  grasp, 

And  faint  in  our  terrible  longing 

For  forms  that  we  never  may  clasp. 


72  Rose- Ashes 

From  the  arms  held  out  to  embrace  us, 
We  shrink  with  a  moaning,  to  pray 

For  the  pressure  of  arms  that  are  folded 
Forever  and  ever  away. 

O,  what  does  it  mean — all  this  yearning 
For  something  forever  beyond, 

This  passionate  cry  of  the  spirit, 
This  waiting  on  days  undawned? 

O,  fathomless  ocean  of  longing 
That  breaks  on  a  glittering  strand 

Beyond     where     our     thought-shafts     may 

quiver, 
— The  shore  of  an  unknown  land, 

You  bear  on  your  bosom   forever 
Our  shallops  of  hope — pain-born — 

Sent  out  in  the  nights  of  our  sorrow, 
To  seek  for  the  harbor  of  morn. 


A  Woman's  Response  73 


A  Woman's  Response 

My  friend,  your  words  of  eloquence, 
Your  tones  of  passion-pleading, 

The  tremulous  music  of  your  voice, 
Fall  on  my  heart  unheeding. 

A  dark  face,  like  a  cameo, 
Comes  evermore  before  me, 

To  exorcise  the  passion-spell 

Your  thrilling  touch  casts  o'er  me. 

When  I  would  yield  me  to  the  tide 
That  torrent-like  impels  me, 

A  dreamy  memory  lulls  my  brain, 
And  from  your  arms  compels  me ; — 

The  memory  of  a  proud,  dark  face, 
With  eyes  of  tender  meaning, 

Which  I  may  never  seek  across 
The  chasms  intervening. 


74  Rose-Ashes 

Ah !  Life,  for  me,  means  one  long  strif*. 

With  rebel  foes  internal, 
A  ceaseless  struggle  of  the  soul 

To  stand  on  heights  supernal. 

The  dark  face  like  a  cameo, 
With  eyes  of  tender  meaning, 

May  never  come  to  me  across 
The  chasms  intervening. 

At  Love's  high  altar  I  have  bowed, 
The  sacred  Host  revealing, 

I  cannot  prove  apostate  now, 
At  shrines  less  holy,  kneeling. 

And  so,  I  cannot  see  your  eyes 

So  full  of  passion-pleading; 
The  tremulous  music  of  your  voice 
Falls  on  my  heart  unheeding. 


After  All  75 


After  All 

I  have  come  to  my  room  all  alone  to-night, 
A  respite  from  care  here  to  borrow ; 

But  I  sink  on  my  knees  by  the  side  of  my  couch, 
Bowed  down  by  a  tempest  of  sorrow. 

I  have  been  so  brave  through  the  long  busy  day 
For  the  toil  and  the  earnest  endeavor, 

That  I  deemed  my  feet  on  the  strong  white 

heights 
Would  stand  thus  securely  forever. 

I  have  prayed  for  strength,  and  I  thought  it 

was  mine, 

Every  passionate  heart-cry  to  smother ; 
The  touch  of  your  hand  should  be  henceforth 

to  me 
I  said — but  as  that  of  another. 


76  Rose-Ashes 

And  calmly  I  stood  on  the  summits  of  peace, 
And  heard  not  the  pitiful  sobbing 

Of  sorrowful  surges  which  beat  at  their  base 
With  ceaseless,  insistent  throbbing. 


And  yet — after  all — I  have  come  to  my  room, 
A  tryst  here  with  memory  keeping, 

But  to  sink  on  my  knees  by  the  side  of  my 

couch 
In   a   pitiful   tempest   of  weeping. 


My  love,  must  it  always  end  this  way  for  me, 
— This  strife  of  the  spirit  and  human, — 

Must  I  be,  when  all  the  strong  effort  is  done, 
Just  a  loving  and  sorrowful  woman? 


Must  ever  I  toil  to  gain  heavenly  heights 
Where  respite  from  passion  is  surest, 

To  be  always  hurled  from  their  summits  of 

peace 
When  I  deem  that  my  feet  are  securest? 


After  All  77 

To  be  hurled  by  the  thought  of  a  long  ago  kiss, 
Or  the  thrilling  of  vanished  caresses, — 

Borne  down  by  a  flood-tide  of  memory,  thick- 
strewn 
With  the  flotsam  a  wrecked  Past  possesses. 


78  Rose-Ashes 


Nepenthe 

I  live  as  in  a  dream, 
Treading    alone    life's    pathway    through    the 

years, 
Walking  alone,  alike  in  smiles  or  tears — 

Walking  as  in  a  dream. 

It  seems  but  vaguely  true 

That  many  changing  years  have  passed  me  by, 
— So  many  years — since  last  I  said  "Good-bye" 

To  love — and  hope — and  you. 

Ah,  well !  'twas  better  so, — 
Better  we  parted  in  the  years  long  flown, 
Better  that  I  should  live  my  life  alone, 

And  sadly  bid  you  go. 

For  your  bright  pathway  led 
To  that  dim  height  where  Fame  defieth  Death, 
Mine  through  deep  vales  fanned  by  the  fevered 
breath 

Of  hopes  now  cold  and  dead. 


Nepenthe  79 

Yet  once  I  fondly  deemed 
That  naught  on  Earth  could  ever  soothe  my 

grief, 
That  Heaven  alone  could  give  my  soul  relief, 

So  sad  to  me  life  seemed. 

I  smile — and  yet  I  sigh — 

To  think  that  once — ah,  once — I  loved  you  so — 
Made  you  my  idol,  and  could  feel  such  woe 

To  speak  the  last  "Good-bye." 

All  feeling  now  is  fled; 

No  pain  stirs  in  my  heart  at  thought  of  you, 
Only   the   faith    that   Love   and   Heaven    are 
true, — 

All — all  beside  is  dead. 


80  Rose-Ashes 


OjaU! 

I  wish  I  knew  that  from  this  wearying  dark 
ness, 

Through  which  I  grope  my  way, 
I'd  come  at  last  to  see  the  clear  blue  heavens, 

And  greet  God's  perfect  day. 

If    some    day    I    should    turn    from    toil    and 

sadness, 

To  meet  your  clasping  hand, 
And   know,  at  last,   that  all   my   soul's   deep 

longing 
Your  own  could  understand, — 

Could    I   but   know   that    in    some    far   sweet 

morning, 

We  should  stand  side  by  side, 
And    in    that    hour    find    all    Life's    questions 

answered, 
I  should  be  satisfied. 


And  Yet  81 

And  Yet 

I  would  my  soul  were  free 
From   love's  sweet  slavery, 
The  heights  of  perfect  peace  to  proudly  greet ; 
I'd  know  no  chains  to  fret, 
No  bonds  of  love, — and  yet 
Love's  slavery  is  so  sweet! 

Could  I  forget  you,  dear, 
Cease  wishing  you  were  here, 
Cease  holding  my  soul's  arms  your  own  to 

meet, 

I  know  that  peace  I'd  gain, 
In  freedom  from  Love's  chain, 
But — slavery  is  so  sweet! 

And  so — I  cannot,  dear, 
Cease  wishing  you  were  here, 
Cease  holding  my  soul's  arms  your  own  to 

meet, 

Nor  even  wish  to  be 
From  such  dear  bondage  free — 
Love's  slavery  is  so  sweet ! 


82  Rose- Ashes 


In  Bondage 

"Let  us  be  free,"  we  said,  "to  come  and  go, 
Bound  by  no  ties  that  fetter  us  in  vain, 

No  viewless  chains  the  world  should   never 

know, 
That  cut  into  the  heart  with  ceaseless  pain." 

"We  will  be  free,"  I  said,  I  was  so  strong 
To  win  the  radiant  heights  where  souls  are 

free, 

My  words  seemed  echo  of  a  brave  sweet  song 
That  passed  in  waves  of  light  from  you  to 
me. 

The  clasping  of  your  hand  I  put  away, 

And  turned  me  from  the  love-light  of  your 
eyes; 

I  was  so  brave,  I  thought,  to  turn  away 
And  shut  the  gate  'twixt  me  and  Paradise. 


In  Bondage  83 

To  turn  away — because  an  angel  stood 

With  sword  of  duty,  pointing  stern  the  way 

Through  starless  night  and  dreary  solitude, 
Where  Love  and  Pity  send  no  hopeful  ray. 

And  am  I  free?    Yes,  as  the  prisoned  bird 
That  beats  its  weary  wings  against  the  bars, 

Is  free  to  soar  and  let  her  song  be  heard ' 
Full  in  the  glory  of  the  sun  and  stars. 

Yes,  free — as  all  things  caged   and  bound  are 

free 

To  cast  aside  their  chains  for  dance  and  song ; 
I  live  to  know  that,  through  eternity 

Love's   chains   beyond   all   human   will   are 
strong. 


84  Rose-Ashes 


Suspense 

O,  torturing  sweetness  of  kisses 
That  wait — and  long  to  be  given ! 

O,  tender  completeness  of  blisses 

That  beckon  from  Hope's  dream-heaven ! 

Will  dear  hands  that  greet  us  in  grasping 
Respond  to  the  thrill  of  our  own? 

Will  fond  arms  that  meet  us  in  clasping 

Hold  us  close — as  in  dreams  they  have  done? 

O,  eyes  that  with  love-light  are  burning, 
Will  your  warm  glance  ever  grow  cold 

With  the  shadow  of  change  or  of  turning 
From  the  passionate  ardor  of  old? 


Pursued  85 


Pursued 

Pursued  by  the  fear  that  a  sorrow 
May  steal  like  a  wolf  to  my  fold, — 

By  dread  lest  the  dawn  of  to-morrow 
May  herald  some  anguish  untold. 

Oppressed  by  a  shadowy  terror 

That  Wrong  has  crept  in  for  the  Right, 

That  Truth  has  been  murdered  by  Error — 
Her  blood  blurs  the  fountain  of  light. 

O,  Mountains  of  Peace  that  like  spectres 
Seem  shivering  and  shrinking  away, 

Shall  ever  I  tread  your  calm  summits 
In  strength  of  some  far  distant  day? 


86  Rose- Ashes 


Nirvana 

To  cease  the  toil,  the  strife,  the  fierce  endeavor, 

To  close  sad,  tearful  eyes, 
To  fold  the  weary  hands  in  restful  stillness, 

After  death's  glad  surprise. 

To  lie  enmantled  by  the  cool  green  clover, 

In  hush  of  dreamless  rest, 
To    heed    no    more    the    mystery    of    Day's 
dawning, 

Or  red  death  in  the  west. 

To  claim  a  kinship  with  the  stoic  mountain, 

In  placid  silentness, 
A  brotherhood  with  rocks  and  turf  and  grasses 

Which  rain  and  winds  caress. 

To  put  aside  the  strife  for  worldly  treasures, 

All  passionate  desire, 
To  be  absorbed  into  the  womb  of  Nature, 

Merged  in  creative  fire. 


Nirvana  87 

To  be  embodied  in  the  trees  and  blossoms, 
Or  winds  and  rainbow  lights, 

The     psychic     essence     of     cloud-tints     and 

sunshine, 
Or  grace  of  swallow-flights. 

To  see  the  End  clasp  hands  with  the  Beginning, 
— Life's  mystic  circle,  wrought 

By  plan  Divine, — each  earth-born  link  a  symbol 
With  deepest  meaning  fraught. 


OTHER  POEMS 


At  Santa  Cruz  91 


At  Santa  Cruz 

For   hours   I    watched    the    languid   breakers 

creep 
Along   the    smooth,    gray    beach    at    Santa 

Cruz, — 

A  charmed  watch  I  could  not  choose  but  keep, 
Lest  I  some  witchery  of  the  scene  should 
lose. 

Across  the  dreamy  distance  of  the  bay, 
Whose  azure  dimples  glisten  in  the  light, 

The  low  foot-hills  that  shelter  Monterey 
Like  half-seen  spectres  tremble  in  my  sight. 

Ben  Lomond,  monarch  of  the  hills  that  hold 
This     green-walled     crescent     in     a     fond 
embrace, 

Stands  like  a  giant  of  the  days  of  old, 

And  lifts  to  heaven  his  calm,  majestic  face. 


92  Rose-Ashes 

From  deep  ravines  and  summits    dark    with 

pines, 

From  rugged  hills  where  laurel  and  madrone 
Mingle  with  redwoods,  or  where  wild  wood 

vines 

Creep  through  deep  glens  no  human  foot  has 
known, 

Float  resinous  odors  on  the  warm,  soft  gale 
To  meet  the  sea-winds  and  the  ocean  dews, 

These  meeting  forces  mix,  dissolve,  exhale 
And  spill  their  incense  over  Santa  Cruz. 

And  while  I  heard  the  languid  breakers  moan, 
And    pulse    their    ceaseless    tide    upon    the 

sands, 
I  learned  a  secret  in  their  monotone, 

And   read  the   signal  of  their  white   foam 
hands. 


Storm- Born  93 


Storm-Born 

Like  forms  half  seen,  that  float 
Adown  the  quivering  river  of  our  sleep, 
I  see  the  grand  gray  hills  their  vigil  keep. 
Through  storm  and  mist  that  down  their  bare 
sides  sweep, 

They  seem  as  things  remote. 

Chant  me  your  hymn,  oh  Storm, 
And  Night  and  Darkness  that  around  me  lie! 
Shout  me  your  deepest  meaning,  oh  ye  Sky, 
And  Lightning-darts,  that  waken  but  to  die 

In  Thunder's  fierce  alarm ! 

Are  ye  not  types  of  Life, 
Ye  haunting  spirits  of  the  upper  deep, 
Strong   human   life,   born   but   to   watch   and 

weep, 
Whose  restless  throbs  find,  but  with  Death's 

calm  sleep, 
Surcease  of  toil  and  strife? 


94  Rose-Ashes 

Dost  symbol  Love  divine, 
Ye  everlasting  hills,  whose  regal  crest 
Is  pillowed  on  the  Storm's  tumultuous  breast? 
Not   Time   nor    wildest    Storm    thrills     with 
unrest 

That  steadfast  heart  of  thine. 

Oh  Life,  that  ceaselessly 

Moans  and  complains  as  weary  heart-sick  child, 
Thy  father  bids  thee  turn  from  tempests  wild 
To  Love — thy  mother.     Thee,  their  wayward 
child, 

She  calls  -most  tenderly. 


Coming  Home  95 


Coming  Home 

Gleaming  through  rain  and  darkness 

I  see  the  lights  of  my  home, 
Where  my  children  all  are  gathered 

Waiting  for  "Mamma"  to  come. 

My   eldest   born — my   Willie — 
Who  leaves  for  a  moment  his  book, — 

The  "Arabian  Night's  Entertainments," 
To  come  to  the  window  and  look. 

He  is  dreaming  of  fairies  and  genii, 
And  castles,  strong  and  grand, 

Which  he  shall  go  forth  to  conquer 

With  the  strength  of  his  own  right  hand. 

My  son,  when  you  go  out  to  battle, 

To  do  a  man's  brave  part, 
You  will  find  there  are  giants  to  conquer 

Whose  homes  are  in  the  heart. 


96  Rose-Ashes 

Do  battle  'gainst  Wrong  and  Oppression, 

Take  arms  in  Humanity's  cause, 
Strike  for  Right  and  for  Principle  always, 

Regardless  of  blame  or  applause. 

There  is  Mary, — my  first-born  daughter, — 
With  her  tender,  womanly  grace, 

And  the  beautiful  soul  that  speaks  through  her 

eyes 
And  glorifies  her  face; 

The  pearl  of  mother's  treasures 

In  the  diadem  of  Home. 
Ah!  my  heart  is  filled  with  longing 

As  I  think  of  the  years  that  must  come; 

When  she  shall  take  up  her  life-work 

Of  willing  hands  or  brain, 
And  mother's  arms  can  shield  her  no  more 

From  the  heart-aches  and  the  pain. 

Then  my  little,  restless  Roy, 

With  his  fancies  queer  and  quaint,       f 
Repeating  odd  lines  from  Whittier, 

His  childish  patron  saint. 


Coming  Home  97 

Will  life  be  cruel  to  you, 

My  delicate,  sensitive  one, 
When  you  go  out  to  meet  its  giants, 

That  each  must  encounter  alone? 

May  angels  of  love  attend  you, 
For  your  spirit  would  faint,  I  fear, 

Without  their  kind  ministrations 
And  their  presence  ever  near. 

Last,  -my  golden-haired  "Delmasita," 

Whose  blue-gray  eyes  reveal 
That  the  secrets  of  the  Pyramids 

Their  wondrous  depths  conceal. 

Child  of  Life's  glorious  promise 

Of  Prediction  and  Prophecy, 
That  hint  of  a  life-work  for  brain  and  will 

The  fates  have  assigned  to  thee. 

Remember  that  where  much  is  given 

Very  much  will  be  required, 
And  do  whatever  is  thine  to  do 

By  the  highest  motives  inspired. 


98  Rose-Ashts 

And  thus  my  heart  gives  them  greeting 

Across  the  lessening  space 
Of  dark,  which  I  traverse  to  meet  them 

And  take  my  accustomed  place. 

Ah!  I  know  I'll  remember  in  Heaven 
This  joyful  coming  home, — 

When  I  shall  be  watching  and  waiting, 
For  my  children  all  to  come. 

December,  1884. 


Willing  to  Go  Forward  99 


Willing  to  Go  Forward 

"Say  unto  the  Children  of  Israel  that  they  £0  forward." 
(To  Rev.  and  Mrs.  N.  A.  Haskell.     A      ugust,    1893.) 

When  the  soul  stands  in  some  dark  crucial 

hour, 

Just  by  the  gate  of  its  Gethse-mane, 
And  with  prophetic  vision  sees  beyond 
Stretch  cypress  bordered  ways  evanishing, 
Through  which  comes  not  one  ray  of  blessed 

light, 

Nor  promise  of  a  height  where  sunlight  falls, 
Or  roses  bloom,  or  joy-birds  gladly  sing — 
Then  what  but  voice  of  God  can  give  it  heart 
To  ope  the  gate  and  bravely  enter  in, 

Willing  to  go  forward? 


100  Rose- Ashes 

What  shall  we  say  of  loving  gratitude 
To  one,  who  in  such  hour  can  firmly  clasp 
Our  shrinking  hands  that  fain  would  hide  our 

tears, 

And  with  no  doubtful  voice  teach  us  to  see 
With  eyes  of  faith,  the  infinite  rest  and  peace 
That  hold  to  us  entreating  arms  across 
The  farther  portal  of  the  darkest  way? 
Can  make  it  all — the  joy  of  the  beyond, 
The  bliss  that  shines  across   the   "sorrowful 

way" — 
So  clear,. so  plain,  that  with  glad  voice  we  cry 

"Willing  to  go  forward." 

Dear  friend — to  whom  we  tearful  say  to-night 
Not  quite  "farewell,"  but  "till  God's  own  good 

time," 

And  "Mizpah"  for  the  waiting  interval — 
This    have   you    done    unconscious    week    by 

week: 

Into  some  shrinking  heart  that  hardly  dared 
To  face  life's  problems  day  by  day,  you  turned 
The  sunshine  of  your  higher  faith  and  gave 
The  courage  to  go  forward.     Into  hands 


Willing  to  Go  Forward  101 

That  else  would  timorously  have  let  fall 
Life's  burden,  as  a  too  sad,  weary  weight, 
You  have  infused  a  strength  that  is  of  God, 
A  power  to  lift  and  firmly  clasp  what  load 
He  deems  them  worthy  of;  and  made  tired  feet 
"Willing  to  go  forward." 

And,  so,  to-night  we  fain  would  say  to  you 
In  timid,  halting  speech,  yet  lovingly: 
"May  the  dear   God   His  tenderest  blessings 

shower 

On  you  and  yours,  unceasing;  may  you  bear 
So  clear  a  vision  of  the  waiting  joy 
That  guards  the  outer  portal  of  each  way, — 
How  dark  soe'er  the  cypress-bordered  reach 
Stretching  between, — that  your  exultant  soul 
In  singing,  may  not  feel  the  pain ;  in  faith 
Of  light  forget  that  it  is  dark ;  and  thus 
Attuned  to  heavenly  harmonies  ever  be 

'Willing  to  go  forward.'  " 


102  Rose- Ashes 


The  Legend  of  Amapola 

Deep  in  the  bosom  of  that  mountain  range 
Which  crosses  California  north   and  south — 
With  many  a  branching    spur    to    east    and 

west — 

Close  clasped  by  rocky  ledges,  lies  concealed 
Vein  upon  vein  of  purest,  virgin  gold. 
Far  in  the  depths  of  some  forgotten  Past, — 
Ere  man  had  come  to  search  the  treasure  out — 
The  ardent  sun  had  pierced  the  hiding  place 
With  his  warm  wooing,  and  had  won  his  suit. 
And  from  this  union — Sun  with  Gold — was 

born 

The  Amapola,  California's  flower, 
Its  swaddling  clothes,  the  warm  delicious  air 
Of  California  Aprils ;  and  its  fount 
Baptismal,  softly  falling  rains  and  dews 
That  bid  to  greenness  her  brown-bosomed  hills ; 
While  every  twittering  call-bird  that  salutes 
The  day-break  with  his  pipings,  and  the  lark 
That  sings  his  Matin  and  his  Vesper  hymns 
In  deep  blue  heavens — these  were  choristers; 


The  Legend  of  Amapola  103 

The  priest, — the  Spirit  of  the  broad,  free  West ; 
While  sighing  pine  and  moaning  ocean  gave 
With  "married  music,"  solemn  sponsor  vows. 

Through  countless  years  the  gorgeous  blossom 

bore 

A  name  unknown  save  but  to  Sun  and  Gold, 
Sponsors  and  Priest,  and  they  have  told  it  not 
To  listening  ear  of  man.     But  one  day  ca-me, 
A  hundred  years  or  more  ago,  a  band 
Of  holy  friars  to  our  shore,  who  bore 
Christ's  cross  to    savage  races  in  our  wilds. 
This  sun-gold  flower  they  "Amapola,"  named. 
Adding  as  whispered  benedicite, 
"Copa  de  oro" — holy  grail,  which  holds 
Within  its  sacred  chalice,  heaven's  gifts 
Of  warmth  and  beauty — California's  dower. 
These  mystic  names  the  early  Father's  gave 
So  long  ago,  and  blessed  with  prayer  and  sign, 
Let  not  "Eschscholtzia"  dare  erase,  or  write 
Her  own  across.     But  let  the  sun-gold  flower 
Be  "Amapola"  to  the  end  of  time, 
With  "Copa  de  oro" — tender  sigh  of  love — 
God's  "cup  of  gold" — a  prayerful  after-thought. 


104  Rose- Ashes 


Alum  Rock  Canyon 

Once,   long  ago,   when    Nature's   hand 

Was  busy  at  formation, 
She  found  a  box  of  chaos  scraps, 

The  loveliest  of  creation. 

And  so,  in  sweet  caprice— who  knows? — 
To  please  some  dear  companion, 

She  took  the  store  of  beauty-scraps 
And  made  this  matchless  canyon. 

The  wildest,  sweetest,  fairest  things 
Are  here  in  glen  and  torrent, 

You'll  vow  there  never  was  a  place 
Like  Alum  Rock,  I  warrant. 

The  quaint  madrone,  the  laurel  trees, 
And  countless  shrubs  that  cover 

The  mountain  sides ;  the  soft,  warm  air, 
The  blue  sky  bending  over, 


Alum  Rock  Canyon  105 

Make  it  a  spot — when  weary  worn — 
You  seek  with  loved  companion, 

And  find  the  gods  of  rest  and  peace 
Dwell  in  this  matchless  canyon. 

1895. 


106  Rose- Ashes 


In  Memory  of  Mrs.  E.  O.  Smith 

(Written  for  her  memorial  service,  Sept.   11,   1904.) 

To  write  a  verse  in  memory  of  our  friend, 

This  honored  task  I  feel  I  cannot  do, 

In  presence  of  the  poem  of  her  life — 

Its  rythm,  depth  and  tender  cadences — 

I  pause  in  reverence,  and  know  that  rhyme 

And  measured  words  are  all  inadequate 

To  speak  the  heart  full  thoughts  we  have  of 

her. 

So,  but  a  modest  tribute  here  I  bring 
And  on  love's  altar  place — speaking  her  name. 

She  lived  her  life  so  grandly ;  she  took  up 
So  bravely  all  it  gave  of  joy  or  pain, 
Whatever  duty  offered  did  so  well, 
With   gentle   dignity   and   womanly    grace, 
That  those  who  knew  her  best  marveled  the 
most. 


In  Memory  of  Mrs.  E.  O.  Smith  107 

And  yet  no  duty  ever  pressed  so  hard 
She  had  not  time  to  reach  a  hand  to  one 
In  need  of  aid;  how  many  such  were  drawn 
Within  her  sphere  of  sweet  beneficence, 
In  their  fierce  hour  of  need,  only  our  Lord 
And  her  own  guardian  angel  ever  knew. 

Her  marvelous  energies  could  well  have  shaped 
The  destiny  of  nations ;  yet  so  filled 
With  human  sympathy  and  selfless  love 
For  all  her  kind,  was  her  great  heart,  she  spent 
Her  life  in  thought  for  others,  and  their  weal ; 
To  plan,  to  guide,  encourage  or  inspire 
Whatever  effort  that  could  work  for  good 
Of  others — always  others — never  self. 

How  much  we  miss  her,  only  years  can  tell, 
In  which  we  turn  to  ask  her  wise  advice, 
Or  clasp  her  kindly  hand — to  find  her  gone. 
Yet  could  this  friend  belov'd  tell  us  today — 
This  very  while  we  meeting  mourn  for  her — 
All  that  it  means  to  solve  the  problem  of 
Death's  solemn  mystery,  not  one  of  us 
Who  loved  her  so,  and  felt  it  must  not  be 


/  08  Rose- Ashes 

That  she  should  go,  would  wish  to  call  her 

back. 

And  yet,  remembering  all  we  lose  in  her, 
Our  need  steps  in  between  her  greater  gain 
A.nd  us ;  grief  blinds  us,  and  we  feel  that  earth 
Is  lonelier  without  her,  ever  more. 


To  Ina  Coolbrith  109 


To  Ina  Coolbrith 

Long  years  ago,  while  yet  my  eyes 
I  shaded  from  the  dazzling  light 

Of  one  beloved  sun-star,  that  shed 
His  kindly  radiance  on  my  sight, 

You  came  within  the  scintillant  sphere 
Of  aureole  light  enfolding  him — 

And  then  two  stars  together  sang, 

Clear,  sweet,  upon  dawn's  whitening  rim. 

He  faded  from  our  sky — but  you 

Staid — singing,  still  with  stronger  tone; 

Our  homes  were  yours,  our  gods,  our  hearts, 
And  you  are  California's  own. 

Then  let  me,  least  of  all  the  lights 

Of  California's  minstrelsy, 
Greet  you  for  her,  and  give  you  hail ! 

Our  Morning  Star  of  Poesy. 
San  Jose,  Cal.,  January  29,  1907. 


110  Rose- Ashes 


*At  the  Cross-road 

There's  a  time  in  the  life  of  each  mortal, 
When  he  stands  by  a  shadowy  gate, 

Beyond   whose   mysterious   portal 
Diverges   the   cross-road   of   Fate. 

The  gate  swings  apart  and  he  glances 
Bewildered  down  vanishing  ways, 

And  out  over  unknown   expanses — 
A  wish  and  a  prayer  in  his  gaze. 

He'd  choose  the  bright  pathway  of  pleasure 
And  linger  in  rose-bowers  of  ease, 

Would  grasp  in  his  strong  hand  Life's  treasure 
And  drink  its  rich  wine  to  the  lees. 


*The  poems  which  follow  were  left  by  Mrs.  Walter  in  manuscript 
form,  some  in  the  making,  hence  incomplete  in  places,  and  many 
of  them  not  yet  subjected  to  the  final  test  of  her  ever  rigid  polish 
ing.  M.  W. 


At  the  Cross-road  111 

Then   gaily   Fate's   dice-box   he  rattles, 
With  laughter  and  jest,  casts  his  die, 

Of  Love  and  of  Pleasure  he  prattles, 
Hears  song-larks  of  Hope  in  the  sky. 

In  this  crisis  of  Time,  what  he  chooses, 
But  God  and  the  future  can  tell. 

He  wins  and  Hope  crowns  him ; — or  loses 
And  treads  the  scorched  pathway  of  Hell. 

But  never  again  at  Life's  portal 
May  he  linger  and  dreamily  wait; 

'Tis  given  but  once  to  each  mortal 
To  stand  at  the  cross-road  of  Fate. 


112  Rose- Ashes 


Santa  Cruz,  December  23,  1890 

The  tide  goes  out  and  the  tide  comes  in, 
But  never  a  tide  comes  in  for  me, 

Till  death  shall  perish  and  life  begin 
On  the  distant  shores  of  a  farther  sea. 

I  am  sick  to  the  heart  of  this  fierce,  rude  strife, 
This  struggle  to  be  and  to  hold  my  own, 

To  call  this  barest  existence  life ! 

With  death-songs  of  love  for  its  undertone. 

O  breakers,  that  mark  on  the  quivering  sands 

The  heart  beats  of  ocean  forever  the  same, 

Do  you  reach  me  in   pity  your  white  foam 

hands, 

As  I  breathe  in  your  pauses,  my  prayer — 
a  name? 

Ah !  the  tide  creeps  out  and  the  tide  creeps  in, 
But  one  day  a  tide  shall  come  to  me 

On  the  shadowy  shore  of  a  dreamy  sea, 
Where  death  shall  perish  and  life  begin. 


Mt.  Hamilton  113 


Mt.  Hamilton 

[. 
Mt.  Hamilton :  what  joy  to  tread 

Thy  wooded  ways  and  hilly, 
To  seek  in  upland  fields  of  gold 
The  Mariposa  lily; 

Or  creep  through  dim  sequestered  paths 

To  secret  pastures  leading, 
Where  half  afraid,  beneath  the  trees, 

The  wild,  slim  deer  are  feeding; 

In  wooded  glooms  to  come  upon 
The  gentle  harebells  sleeping, 

Where  perfumed  silence  is  but  stirred 
By  wild-cat's  stealthy  creeping; 

To  watch  in  manzanita  groves 
The  timid  quail  low  crouching, 

Along  the  bare  hills  yellow  side 
The  lank  coyote  slouching. 


114  Rose- Ashes 

II. 

What  is  the  tie  that  binds  my  soul  to  yours, 

O  hills  of  Hamilton? 

With  strands  that  fail  not,  but  whose  strength 
endures 

While  my  life's  course  shall  run  ? 

Great  loving  hills  that  took  me  to  your  breast 
— Tired  frame  and  broken  heart — 

And  wrapped  me  in  your  winds  of  peace  and 

rest, 
My  life  of  thine  a  part! 

Hills  of  my  heart !  no  other  love  like  mine 

Was  ever  given  thee 

Since  first  your  glorious  heads  were  reared  to 
shine 

Beside  the  western  sea. 

When  tenderest  ties  of  love  for  me  were  dead, 
As  mountain  mist  exhaled — 

And  I  left  desolate,  to  thee  I  fled, 

Whose  welcome  never  failed. 


Mi.  Hamilton  115 

All  human  help  may  fail — the  heavens  be  brass 

Above  the  aching  head — 
Yet  steadfast — you — whose  love  may  only  pass 

When  earth  itself  is  dead. 


116  Rose- Ashes 


Reincarnation 

This  strange  Buddhistic  faith — that  we  have 
lived 

In  former  incarnations  on  the  earth — 
That  we  may  come  again  long  ages  hence, 

Through  Karmic  forces  to  a  happier  birth, 

If  we  have  garnered  in  this  present  life, 
And  in  the  former  ones,  sufficient  store 

Of  this  same  Karma — thro'  unselfish  love 
And  toil  for  others,  to  unclasp  life's  door ; 

It  creeps  about  my  heart  until  I  fain 

Would  wring  the  secret  from  the  long  gone 

years, 

And  know  the  story  of  my  wrong-lived  life 
That  brought  me  this  deserved  baptism  of 
tears. 


Reincarnation  1 17 

I  see  the  great  hot  desert  round  me  lie, 

Far  to  the  north  and  east  in  endless  reach, 
While  to  the  south,  the  warm  Erythraen  sea 
Throbs  its  strong  pulse  upon  a  low  white 
beach. 


O,  hot,  magnetic,  soundless  desert,  where 
Not  one  poor,  flippant  tree  or  shrub  intrudes 

Its  puny  presence  to  divert  the  soul 
From  the  hushed  awe  of  God's  own  solitudes, 


I  reach  my  hand  to  you  across  the  span 
Of  chilling  western  life  that  seeks  to  hold 

This  strong  fierce  soul  of  mine  in  half-loosed 

clasp 
And,  homesick,  cry  for  that  free  life  of  old. 

What  is  it  that  I  did  or  left  undone 

In  that  glad  life,  my  soul's  own  native  land, 

That  I  was  banished  to  the  cold  of  this, 
Tossed  on  bleak  rocks  that  spurn  my  cling 
ing  hand? 


118  Rose- Ashes 

And  can  I  gather  by  a  life  of  toil 

And  self  renunciation  thro'  long  years, 

By  laying  on  some  altar  day  by  day 

All  I  have  asked  of  God  in  prayer  and  tears, 
tears, 

Enough  of  this  Karmaic  force  to  give 

My  homesick  soul  a  passport  to  the  land 

It  yearns  unceasing  for — that  lies  close  by 
The  Arab  sea, — the  sun-kissed  desert  sand, 

Then  I  can  reach  my  glad  arms  up  to  God, 
Unfettered  by  the  chains  that  gall  in  this, 

Can  feel  the  desert  fire  thrill  in  -my  veins 
And  meet  the  simoon  as  a  lover's  kiss. 

Then  I  may  lie  at  will  as  long  ago, 

My  garments  but  the  mantle  of  the  heat 

Wrought  by  the  sun ;  my  home  a    silken  tent 
Where  skins  of  savage  beasts  caress  my  feet, 

Where  I  am  queen  of  all  the  desert  round 
Whose  wild  fierce  sons  obey  me  as  of  old, 

Whose  green  oases  feed  my  countless  herds, 
My  noble  steeds  that  but  the  deserts  hold. 


Reincarnation  119 

And  then  some  happy  day,  will  come  again 
My  King,  still  thro'  this  dreary  time  my  own, 

For  whom  my  soul  has  mourned  in  all  this  life 
In  saddest  widowhood — and  been  alone. 

For  he  was  stronger,  truer  far  than   I 
Doomed  to  no  exile  by  this  law  divine 

Of  restitution — but  in  patience  waits 

With  faithful  heart  the  full  extent  of  -mine ; 

My  King — my  love — who  comes  to  me  across 
Wide    desert    wastes    from    far    Euphrates' 

plain, 
When  Karma's  will  is  wrought,  and  I  have 

won 
The  clasping  of  his  sheltering  arms  again. 

Oh !  I  will  strive  and  count  them  not  as  long 
The  years  this  incarnation  brings  of  pain, 

If  I  can  win  my  desert  lone  and  free, 

My  home,  my  King,  my  native  wilds  again. 


120  Rose- Ashes 


Monte  Piedra 

On  toil-won  summits  God's  sweet  peace 
Enfolds  the  weary  hearted ; 

Alone,   upon  this  mountain  top 

I  check  the  tear  drops,  started. 

Your  rock-crowned  summit  which  I  win 
By  pathways  steep  and  weary, 

Another  summit,  stands,  for  me, 

Up  pathways  far  -more  dreary. 

I  brought  among  your  pines  and   rocks 
A  heart  too  sad   for  sighing; 

Your  strength  puts  my  weak  will  to  shame, 
Your  soul  to  mine  replying. 

So  here  I  lay  my  burdens  down, 

Upon  your  strength,  my  weakness, 

And   Life's  sad  summits  lose  for  me 
One-half  the  olden  bleakness. 


Monte  Piedra  121 

I  cannot  say  yet,  "I  am  strong 

For  Life's  demand  or  duty," 

But  only  this,  "Such  strength  will  come, 

Brought  by  your  strength  and  beauty." 

For  this  I  crown  you  Mount  of  Peace — 

Cross-tipped — though   heaven-shining — 

Your  toil-won  summits  bring  to  me 

God's  peace  for  weak  repining. 


122  Rose-Ashes 


Conflict 

With  my  hand-clasp  on  your  throat,  with  my 

knee  upon  your  breast — 
Lest  you  rob  my  soul  of  peace,  lest  you  steal 

•my  spirit's  rest — 
Giant  form  of  tyrant  Passion,  pale  with  love's 

sharp  agony, 
I  would  kill  you  with  my  hand-clasp,  crush  you 

with  my  trembling  knee. 

I  would  crush  you,  I  would  kill  you,  hurl  you 

from  me  cold  and  still — 
Yet  you  woo  me,  ah !  you  win  me,  spite  of  all 

my  strength  of  will. 
I   would   fiercely  crush   and   kill  you,   in   my 

spirit's  deep  unrest. 
Yet  you  softly  woo   and  win  me  with  your 

head  upon  my  breast. 


Conflict  123 

God-like  form  of  tyrant  Passion,  pale  with 
love's  sweet  agony, 

Clasp  me,  hold  me,  I  would  yield  me,  to  thy 
deepest  ecstacy ; 

I  would  slay  you — but  you  hold  me  in  a  rap 
ture  of  unrest 

With  your  strong  arms  close  about  me  and 
your  head  upon  my  breast. 


124  Rose- Ashes 


May  2,  1903 

(In  Memory  of  Willie  Walter.) 

Twelve  years,  twelve  years !  ah,  is  it  that  since 

then? 

That  day  of  days  that  strikes  its  piercing  root 
So  deep  into  my  soul  that  time  nor  change 
Can  ever  by  the  faintest  slackening  loose 
The  fierceness  of  its  hold  upon  my  life! 

Not  time  nor  space  nor  earth's  convulsions 

count 

In  those  strong  tides  that  overwhelm  the  soul, 
Submerged  beneath  whose  waste  of  waters  lie 
All  earthly  things ;  on  whose  compelling  crest 
Tosses  an  ark  that  holds — ah !  what  it  holds ! 
Leaven  of  life  eternal — and  the  dove 
That  best  of  all  in  earth  can  bring  God's 

peace 

That  understanding  passeth.     Ah,  the  ark, 
That  this  wild  deluge  floats  to  loftiest  heights 
That  else  were  unattained — of  Aararat. 


May  2,  1903  125 

But  yet,  dear  heart,  as  I  sit  here  and  count 
By   aching  heart  throbs   all   the  years   since 

then — 

That  day  you  kissed  yourself  out  of  my  life — 
My   life   that   needed   you,    God   knows   how 

much — 
And  when  the  brave,  sweet,  manly  soul  you 

were 

Went  smiling  back  to  God  that  gave  me  you, 
The  way  grows  dark  before  me  and  I  hurt 
Through  all   my  being  with  the  travail  pain 
That  would  from  earth's  all  too  constricting 

womb 

Deliver  me  new  born  to  that  fair  world 
Wherein  I  know  you  dwell  and  wait  for  me. 


126  Rose-Ashes 


Some  Day 

Through  the  fogs  and  the  clouds  that  surround 

us, 

We  are  cheered  by  one  glimmering  ray, 
-A  promise  that  Hope  keeps  repeating, 
"Your  ship  will  come  in — some  day." 

Tho'  the  winds  are  all  firm  set  against  it, 
And  it's  drenched  by  the  dashing  spray, 

And  empty  the  hold  and  the  locker, 

Yet —  "our  ship  will  come  in — some  day." 

Tho'  we  starve  for  the  bread  she  is  bringing, 
For  the  wines,  tho'  we  faint  by  the  way, — 

And  are  chilled  for  the  warm  silken  garments 
That  our  ship  will  bring  in — some  day, 

Yet,   what   is   the   long  weary   waiting; 

"It  soon  will  be  over,"  we  say, 
As  we  look  far  across  the  dark  waters, 

Whence  our  ship  will  come  in — some  day. 


Some  Day  127 

And  what  though  a  shroud  and  a  coffin 
Awaits  him  who  sinks  by  the  way ; 

In  the  beautiful  harbor  of  Heaven 
Is  his  ship  not  in  that  day? 


128  Rose-Ashes 


Love 

Oh !  what  is  it  all  but  a  hurt — at  best, 
And  a  woman's  heart-undoing? 

A  passion-tossed  hope,  a  fierce  unrest, 
And  a  chase  not  worth  pursuing? 

Oh !  a  woman's  love,  for  which  man  pleads 

Like  a  god — is  ever  and  ever 
But  dead-sea  apples  whose  ashes  fall 

With  a  sting  on  the  heart  of  the  giver. 

Could  he  prove  as  fond  when  the  prize  is  won 

And  the  fierce  pursuit  is  over — 
Could  he  give  her  truth  for  the  truth  he  asks, 

And  the  lover  be  always  a  lover, 

Then  Love  would  not  be  a  hurt  at  last, 

And  a  woman's  heart  undoing — 
Not  a  phantom  that  fades  when  the  chase  is 
done 

Unworthy  the  hot  pursuing. 


Pip  and  Ingle  129 


Pip  and  Ingle 

Up  Memory's  telephonic  wire 

I  hear  an  old  time  message  jingle, 

That  speaks  of  friendships  new  lit  fire, 
When  you  were  Pip  and  I  was  Ingle. 

Ah,  me!  those  vealy  days  of  youth, 
Their  memory  makes  my  pulses  tingle ! 

Those  days  of  mutual  trust  and  truth, 
When  you  and  I  were  Pip  and  Ingle. 

And  now  among  my  auburn  strands, 
The  silver  threads  are  far  from  single, 

While  yours,  snatched  out  by  Time's  rude 

hands, 
Bald-headed  Pip !  and  gray-haired  Ingle ! 

But  still  the  love  and  trust  of  youth 
Make  as  of  old  my  heart-strings  tingle ; 

You  always  will  be  Pip  to  me, 
And  I  to  you  am  always  Ingle. 

To    Charles   Warren   Stoddard. 


130  Rose- Ashes 


What  Is  It  to  Be  Akin? 

Two  may  be  born  within  a  common  home, 
Of  self-same  parents,  reared  beside  one  hearth, 
Be  trained  alike  from  youth  to  man's  estate, 
Walk  down  one  path  from  childhood  unto  age, 
And  sleep  at  last  within  a  common  grave, 
And  yet  be  not  akin. 

Two  may  be  born  the  whole  wide  world  apart, 
Of  alien  race — speaking  an  alien  tongue ; 
Trained  up  in  different  ways  from  youth  to 

age, 

Yet,  meeting,  one  day  recognize  in  each 
The  Buddha's  sacred  mark  of  brotherhood. 

It  is  not  accident  of  blood  or  place 

Of  birth  that  makes  humanity  akin ; 

But  something  that  lies  deeper  in  the  soul — 

As  arteries  that  bear  the  rich,  red  flow 


What  Is  It  to  Be  Akin?  131 

Of  life  lie  far  below  the  refuse  bearing  veins : 
The  same  benevolent  impulse  in  the  heart 
To  aid   a   struggling  brother   in   his   need; 
The  kindred  wish  to  banish  low  desires 
For  higher  things — and  good  of  all  mankind ; 
The    kindred    instinct   of   beneficence 
To  wipe  off  tears  and  dash  their  track  with 

smiles; 

The  kindred  thrill  of  reverence  when  the  bow 
Of  God  arches  the  rain-washed  heaven ; 
The  joy  born  of  roses  perfumed  red, 
Or  violet's  fragrant  purple  in  green  leaves ; 
The  throb  of  selfsame  rapture  at  the  cry 
Of  first-born  babe, — one  surge  of  gratitude 
That  out  of  travail  pain  comes  perfect  joy; 
The  sharing  of  one  grief  o'er  coffined  form, 
Placing  of  lilies  pale,  or  asphodels 
In  tiny  fingers  that  can  never  more 
Return  a  loving  clasp, — 
These  show  a  closer  tie  of  brotherhood 
Than  accident  of  birth. 


132  Rose- Ashes 

The  environments  of  birth — its  time  and  place, 
These  are  but  flotsam  on  the  sea  of  life 
Whose  stream,  from  Infinite  to  Infinite, 
Scarce  feels  their  weak  disturbance  of  its  tide, 
But  sets  toward  unknown  shores,  or  haply 

toward 

Some  Saragasso  sea  of  rest  and  peace, 
Where  in  infinitude  of  thoughtful  calm 
We  reach  life's  great  solution  that  mankind 
Are  brothers  all  and  seeming  difference 
Is  difference  of  stage  along  the  road, 
The    King's    highway    from    that    mysterious 

place 

"In   the    Beginning" — to   that   other   place, 
No  less  mysterious,  which  we  call  "the  end" 
For  lack  of  better  term,  but  which  may  be 
A  new  beginning — to  a  higher  end. 
Thus  on  and  on  and  on — 

Infinity. 


Fallibility  133 


Fallibility 

Oh,  could  I  hold  me  to  the  high  ideal 
My  soul  in  hours  of  ecstacy  has  wrought, 

Could  I  but  make  this  heavenly  vision  real, 
And    grasp   the   phantom    I    so    long   have 
sought ! 

And    stand    upon    those    heights    of    perfect 

whiteness, 
Whose    snows    have    chilled    all    physical 

desires ; 

To  face  the  sun  undazzled  by  its  brightness, 
Whose  rays  are  free  from  any  earthly  fires ; 

To  put  aside  forever  all  the  yearning 

For  clasping  arms  or  touch  of  lips  or  hand ; 

To  stand  unmoved  by  any  fear  of  turning. 
Loyal  to  all  I  prize  as  pure  and  grand ! 


134  Rose- Ashes 

But  ah,  this  falling  down,  this  strong  endeavor 
To  rise  again,  from  earthly  longings  free ; 

This  piteous  struggle  that  goes  on  forever 
That  I  would  conquer,  yet  which  conquers 
me! 

Why  was  I  cursed  with  this  two-fold  existence, 
With  power  to  see,  and  not  the  power  to  do, 

To  know  that  safety  lies  but  in  resistance, 
Without  the  strength  to  hold  life's  rudder 
true? 


Fragment  135 


Fragment 

I  do  not  ask  if  you  have  loved  before, 
Or,  I  being  dead,  if  you  could  love  again, 
For  loving  me  now,  you  know  old  love  no 

more, 
And  I  being  dead,  could  feel  no  jealous 

pain. 

What  if  on  stepping-stones  of  some  dead  low 
We  climbed  to  this,  our  life's  most  perfect 

bliss, 

Or,  death  dividing  us,  one  grope  to  prove 
Some  ease  of  pain  in  love  less  fond  than 

this? 


MEMORIAL  TRIBUTES 

TO 

CARRIE  STEVENS  WALTER 


Memorial  Tributes  139 


To  Carrie  Stevens  Walter 
(Obit  26,  April,  1907.) 

Believing,  as  I  must,  that  the  soul  is  im 
mortal,  and  that  it  is  the  soul  speaking  through 
this  fleshly  instrument,  I  say  to  you,  dear 
spirit,  do  you  recall  those  old  days  in  the  early 
sixties  when  you  were  a  young  poet  at  school 
in  Oakland,  when  I  first  met  you? 

We  could  neither  of  us  look  forward  into  the 
future — now  the  past.  You  did  not  know  that 
you  were  to  love  and  to  suffer,  as  you  have, 
dear  friend.  I  did  not  know  my  fate — but  the 
Good  God  has  brought  me  home  to  the  place 
I  love  better  than  any  other  on  earth,  and  it 
is  here  I  receive  the  word  that  tells  me  your 
earthly  career  is  at  an  end. 

Think,  dear  friend,  of  the  old  days  when 
we  were  school  mates.  You  were  writing  your 
first  verses  and  how  sweet  they  were. 


140  Rose- Ashes 

Not  in  all  these  years  have  I  lost  faith  in 
you.  You  have  been  not  only  the  poet,  but 
the  practical  one  who  has  made  a  blessed  home 
for  tire  splendid  children  you  have  brought 
into  the  world. 

I  can  truthfuly  say  that  in  spite  of  adversity 
your  spirit  has  ever  been  the  same — bright, 
happy,  eager,  brave.  I  wish  I  could  say  the 
same  of  mine. 

And  now,  when  your  new  life  begins,  you 
will  not  forget  us.  You  will  remember  that 
even  from  the  old  school  days  we  have  been  the 
same  bosom  friends.  That  we  have  shared 
our  joys  and  sorrows.  That  like  an  other 
sister  you  have  stood  by  me  and  helped  me — 
as  I  would  to  God  I  could  have  helped  you — 
and  that  your  cheerful  temperament  shed  a 
bright  ray  into  a  life  that  has  not  been  without 
its  shadows. 

For  the  love  of  you,  dear  friend,  death  is 
less  dreadful.  I  seem  to  have  you  still  by  the 
hand.  You  are  nearer  to  me  now  than  you 
were  a  few  days  ago ;  and  because  you  are  now 
a  spirit,  never  more  to  be  burdened  with  the 


Memorial  Tributes  141 

care  and  cross  of  life,  I  send  you  the  loyal  love 
of  -more  than  forty  years. 

CHARLES  WARREN  STOOD ARD. 
Monterey,  California,  27th  of  April,  1907. 


142  Rose- Ashes 


It  is  her  birthday.  The  sun  shines ;  the  birds 
sing  joyously;  the  west  wind  sighs  among  the 
roses  in  her  quiet  garden.  The  sweet-briar 
which  she  loved  and  planted  at  her  window 
climbs  riotously  upward  to  the  eaves;  its 
nameless  sweetness  comes  into  her  room  in 
friendliness  and  stirs  about  her  face  as  if  it 
knew,  and,  knowing,  knew  she  knew. 

And  there  she  lies  so  still,  so  white,  so 
peacefully !  Tall  candles  burning  at  her  head, 
unheeding  all  the  beauty  of  the  world — she 
that  so  loved  the  beautiful ! 

Her  hands  were  ever  reached  to  them  that 
suffered  need ;  her  heart  beat  hardest  for  the 
heart  that  ached.  It  does  not  seem  that  she 
could  be  so  quiet  while  people  mourn.  A  city 
rises  up  to  pay  her  tribute  with  its  grief,  and 
still  she  rests  unheeding  all  of  it ;  upon  her 
face  the  mystery  of  babes  that  smile  in  dreams, 
but  on  her  brow  the  majesty  of  those  who  have 
fought  the  great,  great  fight,  and  conqured  as 
they  fell.  She  stepped  out  into  God's  unknown 
with  her  armor  on  and  at  the  head. 


Memorial  Tributes  143 

Tender, loving  mother;  bravest,truest  friend, 
I  lay  a  white  flower  at  her  feet,  and  say  as  we 
have  said  in  many  bygone  years :  "Goodbye, 
dear  heart;  God  bless  you." 

MADGE  MORRIS. 
April  27,  1907. 


144  Rose- Ashes 


Carrie  Stevens  Walter 

Carrie  Stevens  Walter, — brave,  bright,  true- 
hearted,  genius-gifted  Carrie  Stevens  Walter  is 
no  more.  She  has  gone  to  join  "The  choir  in 
visible  of  those  immortal  dead  who  live  again 
in  minds  made  better  by  their  presence;  live 
in  pulses  stirred  to  generosity;  in  deeds  of 
daring  rectitude;  in  scorn  of  miserable  aims 
that  end  in  self;  in  thoughts  sublime  that 
pierce  the  night  like  stars." 

Of  that  great  immortality  of  pure  and  noble 
souls  this  gifted  woman  has  become  a  part; 
and  while  her  death  removes  from  us  the  active 
and  potential  inspiration  of  her  daily  presence, 
it  leaves  us  the  influence  of  her  life  and  the 
cherished  record  of  her  genius,  which  will  re 
main  an  unfailing  portion  of  our  intellectual 
treasury  forever. 

Carrie  Stevens  Walter  has  been  identified 


Memorial  Tributes  145 

with  our  community  from  her  girlhood.  Forty 
years  or  more  ago  she  came  among  us  a 
maiden  in  her  teens,  already  a  teacher,  and 
already  somewhat  known  to  fame.  From  that 
time  to  the  present  she  has  been  one  of  us  in 
all  that  -makes  for  womanhood  and  in  much 
that  contributes  to  progress.  Here  she  bore 
and  reared  her  children,  displaying  in  herself 
and  exemplifying  in  them  those  graces  and 
fruits  of  maternity  which  are  the  crowning 
glory  of  her  sex.  Here  amid  the  labors  and 
cares  of  a  life  not  always  blessed  with  sun 
shine  her  genius  sparkled  forth  continually  in 
verse  and  prose  which  had  nothing  of  bor 
rowed  or  reflected  luster,  but  which  shone  by 
virtue  of  its  own  inner  light.  There  has  always 
been  something  about  the  style  and  matter  of 
her  writings  which  seemed  to  bring  one  into 
immediate  touch  with  the  spirit  of  the  writer 
and  the  theme;  and  while  there  was  no  mis 
taking  the  exquisitely  feminine  suggestion 
which  ran  through  all  she  wrote,  yet  no  single 
line  of  her's  was  ever  effeminate.  In  fact,  when 
moved  by  deep  conviction  or  strong  emotion 


146  Rose- Ashes 

to  the  stress  of  tense  expression  there  was 
wont  to  flash  from  her  eyes  and  gleam  along 
her  lines  a  certain  wild  masterfulness  which 
savored  of  the  jungle;  again,  the  broken  sing 
ing  of  the  dove  would  tremble  through  her 
verses,  revealing  the  restless  pulsations  of  her 
sensitive  heart,  as  in  her  poem  entitled, 

"On  the  Border-Land  of  Tears" 

"On  the  border-land  of  tears, 
Raised  by  hopes  or  crushed  by  fears, 
Joy  and  grief  alternate  swell, 
In  the  soul  no  peace  can  dwell. 

On  the  border-land  of  tears 
Stand  the  ghosts  of  vanished  years; 
All  we  might  be — and  are  not, — 
Greet  us  on  that  haunted  spot. 

All  life's  quivering  mile-posts  loom, 
Sad  as  gravestones  through  the  gloom; 
Trembling  hopes  are  crushed  by  fears 
On  the  border-land  of  tears." 

The  strain  of  exquisite  sadness  which  runs 
through  these  verses  was  not  at  all  the  usual, 


Memorial  Tributes  147 

or  rather  manifest,  mood  of  Mrs.  Walter's 
mind.  On  the  contrary,  her  clear  eye  and 
open,  mobile  features  were  usually  turned  with 
a  smile  and  hopeful,  helpful  word  unto  the 
world.  She  never  lost  her  faith  in  human  na 
ture,  nor  wavered  for  an  instant  in  her  al 
legiance  to  those  great  principles  of  truth, 
justice  and  liberty  in  which  are  reposed  the 
hopes  of  the  race. 

In  everything  which  she  did  or  wrote  is  to 
be  recognized  this  noble  elevation  of  her 
soul ;  this  striving  to  do  and  be  and  say  some 
thing  which  would  make  for  the  betterment 
of  her  kind.  In  the  presence  of  such  a  char 
acter  how  small,  how  pitiful  are  those  vanities 
in  the  pursuit  of  which  so  many  men  and 
women  are  content  to  waste  their  lives. 

JOHN  E.  RICHARDS. 


148  Rose- Ashes 


Carrie  Stevens  Walter 

So  the  old  circle  narrows,  day  by  day! 

A  brief  good  night  to  you,  sweet  friend  and 

fair. 
My  love  with  you,— and  in  your  greetings  say 

I  follow  soon,  to  those  who  wait  me  there. 

— fna  Coolbrith. 


Memorial  Tributes  149 


"Rose  Ashes" 

"Rose  Ashes?"    Nay!  but  roses  freshly  blown, 
Are  hers, — sweet  as  with  fragrant  airs  that 

stir 

In  dew-wet  dawns ;  and  songs,  to  earth  un 
known, 
She  hears  dear  voices  sing  to  welcome  her. 

— Ina  Coolbrith. 


a- 


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